Just Another Day [World of Darkness Oneshot]

[ZerbanDaGreat]

You sit in the corner of your booth, shoulder right up against the glass, scrolling through your phone. Your feet are aching from all the walking you had to do to get here, your head is pounding, your throat is dry, and you're so hungry you could start taking bites out of the seat but you've been waiting on your order for half an hour. You ordered a steak burger and soda, the fuck's so difficult about that? Ugh.

You tap the 'x' and close the news page. You don't need to read about the latest awful thing happening in the world right now. Right now you're dealing with the fact that the train station was closed for some reason - could be anything from a bomb threat to a jumper to someone leaving a ham sandwich on the tracks - forcing you to walk a dozen fucking blocks to the next one, just to realise that you barely missed the last train home for an hour. And now just to add insult to injury, your dinner might come so late that you even miss that one. Fuck it. If it doesn't come with its own vat of grease, it'll still be worth it. Better than the tasteless microwave shit you have at home.

You loosen your tie. God, and you've soaked your damn shirt in sweat to boot. Thing's clinging to you like it got vacuum-sealed, and you are swimming in ballsweat. The kind of nasty, sticky, clammy moisture that leads grown-ass men and women to fear that they've shit themselves a little bit. You pinch the bridge of your nose. Ah, fuck, that's why you want to be home sooner rather than later. Painkillers. Or, no, screw it. You think there's a corner store kinda place nearby, you can grab some there. Before dinner? No, no you know how life works. They'll bring it to your table the second you step out that door. So you're going to wait with a pounding headache then get straight on the train then finally take something for your headache when the sun's well and truly under the horizon. Because that'll be a fun few hours.

You hold up your hand and make a vaguely attention-getting noise. You can tell the waitress is annoyed to be interrupted mid-trip around the diner, but her features soften slightly as she notices your pained expression. You ask her for some water. She nods. You take solace in the fact that at least 'a glass of tap water' is a hard order to fuck up. You let your head rest against the glass, cool against your temple, and try not to think about the possible years of filth built up on this glass by people doing the exact same thing. A shadow passes over your face as someone walks past the window. A customer, it seems. The bell tinkles and they step inside.

Rustling cloth. Creaking leather and padding. Someone sits down on the other side of your table.

"Sorry man," you say. "Already sitting here." Your loosely-curled hand is in the way. Your eyes are closed anyway. You can't see whoever it is, and you know you don't have to either. The murmured apology and departure will just glide right over you.

Except they don't. They never come. The person sitting opposite you doesn't move. Your brow furrows in annoyance. You crack one eye open and pull your hand down, squinting across the table at them. It's an Indian man in a dark suit, perfectly pressed and tailored. Probably costs more than you make in a year. The man in it is far older than you, at least his sixties if you had to ballpark it. Most of his dark hair is hidden by his hat, but there's nothing hiding his eyes. They're the blackest eyes you've ever seen on a person, like the division between pupil and iris has ceased to be. The guy's on the pale side for his ethnicity too, probably goes out in the sun about as much as you do. He handles his walking stick as you watch, a simple black cane with a brightly-polished silver head. Just before it disappears under his black-gloved hand you think you see that it's sculpted in the shape of a skull? Tacky as all hell but you suppose you're not in any position to judge what rich people do with their money. Clearly they know what they're doing with it. They're rich, after all.

"Can I help you?" you say irritably, forcing as much politeness as you can muster.

"Why yes. Yes you can." His voice is strange. It's at once both old and young. It's wizened by years of experience yet he speaks with all the youthful energy and passion of someone your age. He shifts slightly in his seat, settling his cane across his knees. "I was just walking by, you see. Hungry and in the mood for conversation. Food is about the same as it's always been, but conversation is a dying art I find. Everyone's always preoccupied with their phones. Too busy looking down to look up."

"Mhm." Great. He's one of those. You purse your lips slightly. "Well, look... flattered and all, but I'm kinda busy at the moment. I'm uh... texting my sick grandma here." It's a lie, of course. Not the sick grandma part, of course. You haven't spoken to her in a month. You couldn't handle being there in her room, watching her wasting away. It's your own mother taking care of her. Right now you're just typing gibberish into your Notes section and hoping the man goes away.

The phone's screen flashes the blue screen of death and cuts to black. "The fuck?" You sit up, shaking your phone, gripping it tight and tapping with your free hand. Nothing. You try holding the power button, nothing. The power button and the main button, the forced reset you learned. Nothing.

"Unfortunate," the man says. "Technology does prove rather prone to failure, does it not?"

"You'd think not, given how many times the fucking firmware updates," you grumble. You set your dead phone down beside the salt shaker. Well... shit. Now you're stuck in a conversation with some weirdo stranger. You hope desperately for some kind of escape route. You check the time for your trai-

Shit, your phone was your clock.

"Here's your water, sir. Your food should be along shortly." The waitress bends over the table slightly, setting two glasses of water down. You thank her, reach for your glass automatically. As your palm closes around the cold, perspiring surface, you wonder. Why did she get one for your guest? Your brow furrows. You dismiss the silly thought. He must have asked for one before he sat down, is all. Confident people have a way of getting exactly what they want.

"Ssssooo..." He's just staring at you. Why's he just staring at you? You try not to make eye contact with him. "What did you want to have 'conversation' about?"

"What do you think of the present?" he asks.

You chuckle slightly. "That's a pretty broad question, man. Like what do I think of the year, the decade, the millennium, today, like...?"

"What do you think of the present?" he repeats.

"Man, I need-"

"Take it however you'd like. Answer." It feels like he just rapped his cane on the tabletop.

"I dunno man!" you exclaim. "It's just one of those things I don't really think about, y'know? Things are different now than they ever were or ever will be and it's not exactly, like, relevant to me right now. And I have important shit to do like making sure I can pay the rent every month."

"Walk me through that," the man says. "Explain your average day to me."

"Look dude, it's not that-"

"I will be the judge of that. I want to hear you say it."

You shrug, aggravated. This guy's tone is pissing you off in record time. "I dunno man, same shit that basically everyone does. I get up, shower, breakfast if I have time, head to work. I push buttons and go on Facebook when my boss isn't around. I always shit at work so I don't have to pay for toilet paper and my shit's on the clock. Then I head home, eat, watch TV, go to bed. Or do you want to know what I masturbate to, too?"

The man holds your gaze. He doesn't blink. Your bravado quickly fades.

"What else?" he asks.

"What else is there?" you reply.

"Is there really nothing else?"

"... no?" Your annoyance is building back up again. "Look I'm here to eat, okay, not get my life judged by some asshole who's stuck in colonial England."

"Hm. Witty." His smile is thin-lipped and stretched far too tight. "Presuming, of course, you were making a deliberate crack at my country's history with colonial occupation. It's possible you were simply being stupid and ignorant."

"Piss off, man. I don't need this from you."

"Here's your food, sirs!"

"Final-"

You pause. The waitress steps away and goes to serve another customer, her little notebook at the ready. Your food sits before you, simple steak burger and soda, just like you ordered. Glistening with grease, like you hoped it wouldn't be. But you also see the Indian man pick up the chicken sandwich sitting before him and take a grateful bite.

"But..." Your brow furrows. "When did you order?"

He ignores the question. Instead he sets his sandwich down and dabs his lips with his napkin. "Tell me. What did you want to be when you grew up. What were your dreams?"

"None of your business," you snap. "Listen, is this a prank? Is this going on Youtube? Because the last thing I need is to show up in some clickbait bullshit your grandson peddles instead of getting a real job."

"Would you like to know why I sat down with you?" the man asks.

You sigh heavily and sit back, flinging your hand up in the air in a plea for someone to witness what you have to put up with, before letting it slap down in your lap. "Fine. Sure."

"I can see how people will die."

You scoff. "Yeah right. How, predicting roof-jumpers are gonna burst when they hit the ground?"

He shakes his head. "No. I only have to look at them to know." He inclines his head slightly to the right, toward the heart of the diner. "The waitress will die in six months. Armed robbery. She'll try to play the hero. The robber will hear her coming up behind him with a chair. He'll panic, he'll shoot. She'll die on the scene. He'll die five years later, in a prison riot. Homemade shiv to the kidney. He'll die before the riot even stops, much less before they start administering first aid."

You smirk. "Look, it's cute you're trying this hard, but you can only make up so much shit."

"In forty-eight hours your grandmother's Leukaemia will finally kill her," he says.

Your blood runs cold. Your muscles tense. "The fuck did you say?" you hiss. "Have you been following me, you creepy fuck? Is that what this is? You're stalking me? You're gonna have the cops on your ass in seconds if you don't back the fuck off right now."

"Called on what phone?" the man asks with a hint of amusement.

"I'll borrow someone else's, genius," you snap.

Someone shouts in annoyance. You don't register it at first. Then another. Then another. You turn to look, wondering what the hell is going on. You see a man staring angrily at his dead smartphone. You see a woman holding hers aloft like a legendary sword, waving it around in a desperate attempt to tempt a cell signal. You see the waitress stop and dig out her phone to inspect it. Her brow furrows. She clicks the button rapidly. No dice. Your stomach freezes. Soon, almost every single person in the diner is looking down at their freshly-bricked phone.

"I repeat the question," says the man.

"What-" you lick your lips, you swallow "What the fuck is this?" You turn back to face him. He still has that shit-eating, knowing smile on his face. "Tell me what the hell is going on!"

"A question for a question," he replies. "What did you want to be when you grew up?"

"A fireman, an astronaut, a stuntman, fuck if I remember, I was just a kid!" you snap. "The fuck's that have to do with anything?"

"Everyone has one," he replies evenly. "Tell me what yours was. Tell me what you dreamed of doing with your life before it came to... this point."

"I dunno!" you say helplessly. "I guess I was good at Drama in high school? Thought about getting on stage, or the screen, or something. But I'm not a talented, connected, lucky, rich white person so my chances were slim-to-none even before I dropped out. You happy?"

"Are you?" he asks.

" 'course not," you say bitterly. "I hate my job, everyone I date turns out to fucking hate me, nobody from school kept in touch and nobody at work gives a shit about me either, and I'm living paycheck to paycheck. One day's just the same as any other to me."

"I see," the man says.

Silence falls. Thick, cloying, icy silence. Why is the diner so silent? You have to turn your head, you have to check, but you can't. You can't drag your eyes away from the man in the suit and hat.

"I came and sat down with you because of what I saw in you," he says. "In most people, I see their demise in but a glance. In you... I saw nothing."

"Wh- what's that mean?" you ask in a trembling voice. "I'm never gonna die or something?"

He shakes his head with a slight smile, that of someone slightly amused by a pupil's ignorance. "No, no. That is what happens when I am the one who kills them."

You can't breathe. An invisible hand is around your neck and choking, throttling, squeezing the life out of you. You feel your larynx going tight as a straw, crushed by iron hard fingers. You try to say something, try to cry out, but nothing comes. Just a weak, pathetic little wheeze. You scrabble at your throat, clawing so desperately that you rip away skin. But there's nothing to purchase. The hand choking the life out of you isn't real. It's all in your head. But you can feel the bunched skin. You feel yourself dying. You see the darkness eating away at your vision. You're dying. You're going to die. Your blood runs ice-cold, freezing solid in your veins.

You always wanted a cat. Fuck you should've gotten a cat. You could've enjoyed a few weeks, a few days. Your friends from school, you still have their numbers. You could've called. The people from work, you could've gone to them. Your old drama teacher, you still have her contact info. You could've set something up. You could've picked up a course, gotten back into it. You could've asked your parents who they knew. You could've saved up, hired an agent. You could've gone to auditions. You could've. You could've. You could've done so many things.

But instead you're going to die. You feel the tears roll down your cheeks. You feel your struggles slowly ebb. You feel your body shutting down. You feel the lights turning off in your head, one by one. Your brain dying piece by piece. Your limbs going numb. Nothing left but the lonely guttering flame of your consciousness, or your soul, or whatever it is people have. You guess you're going to find out soon.

You feel yourself slump on the table, ungainly, lead-limbed. Your plate skates off the varnished tabletop and shatters on the floor, spilling its contents everywhere. Your cold, perspiring soda can tips over, gushing fizzing liquid like blood. Running low, to a dribble. Your last scrap of breath goes into a quiet sob. You don't want to die.

Everything goes black.
















Air rushes in.

You sit bolt upright, slamming your fists down on the table hard enough to make the other plate bounce as you gasp. All at once your throat is free, aching and stinging terribly but free and last. It hurts. The breath hurts so much. But the pain means you're alive. You hack and cough like a chainsmoker, retching so hard you're sure you're going to bring up your own lungs. Spittle sprays across the table as you struggle to suck in enough air for your burning lungs. Your hand slashes madly around the table, trying to find your soda, your water. Both spilled, useless. You're handed another glass of water. You snatch it and drink greedily, coughing most of it right back up. It was the man who gave it to you but you don't care. You're alive. You're alive and shitty city tapwater tastes like ambrosia right now.

The Indian man is smiling.

"Wh-wha-" you cough. "What'd you... do t'me?"

"I reminded you of the truth," he replies. "That death is all-important, all-encompassing. Modern society has lost touch with death. Its spectre hangs invisibly over people. They have forgotten it. But I do not blame them for it, exactly. I understand why they have. To be well and truly aware of death's gift to life at all times would be to invite a state of constant, orgasmic madness. One that would destroy lesser minds."

"I... I don't..."

"Of course you don't." He shrugs slightly. "And you never will, not truly. I will leave, and you will go home. You will rationalise all this as a nightmare. The memory of what you experienced will fade. But you must not let it disappear. You must cling to it. You must mediate, grasp that sickening fear, hold it close to your chest and drink deeply from the nectar of utter joy that came at its heels. This is to be your first step."

"T-to what?" you stammer.

The man stands, adjusting his hat slightly and setting his cane firmly on the ground. "I'm afraid I must depart for now. But I will be back, sooner or later. And when I return, what will I find? Will I find you in this same diner, eating this same food, worrying about the same problems? Or will I find you racing the Reaper, giving your all in pursuit of what fulfils you? For your sake, I hope I am not disappointed."

He turns. You're not strong enough to leave. If you tried to stand you'd just collapse, you know it. It's all you can do to stay propped up on the tabletop. The sounds of the diner are back. Everyone's staring at you. Everyone's wondering when exactly you slapped your food on the floor. You don't care about them. You stare at the man's retreating back and call out one final question.

"Who are you!?"

The man pauses in the doorway. He looks back over his shoulder.

"They call me Voormas," he says. "Be seeing you."

The door swings shut. The bell rings gently. You throw yourself against the window, craning your neck to see through. He doesn't come out the other side. He's not crossing the street, he's not passing you down the sidewalk, he's not headed the other way. He's nowhere. He's simply gone.

You pay for your food, apologise for the mess, and leave. The moment you step out the door, you feel the dead phone in your pocket buzz to life. You fish it out. Stop on the corner of the street and stare at it.

You send your old Drama teacher an e-mail. Then you call your mother and start to walk.